He at once served notice on Major Dameron, the former Chief, that if he dared to interfere with his work-even by opening his mouth in criticism, he would order a raid, and thrash him.
When the Major found this note under his door one morning, he read and re-read it with increasing wrath. Springing on his horse he went in search of McLeod. He saw him leisurely crossing the street going from the hotel to the court house.
Throwing his horse’s rein to a passing boy, he walked rapidly to him and, without a word, boxed his ears as a father would an impudent child. McLeod was so astonished, he hesitated for a moment whether to strike or to run. He did neither, but blushed red and stammered, “What do you mean, sir?”
“Read that letter, you young whelp!” The Major thrust the letter into his hand.
“I know nothing of this.”
“You’re a liar. You are its author. No other fool in this county would have conceived it. Now, let me give you a little notice. I am prepared for you and your crowd. Call any time. I can whip a hundred puppies of your breed any time by myself with one hand tied behind me, and never get a scratch. Dare to lift your finger against me, or any of the men who refused to go with your new fool’s movement, and I’ll shoot you on sight as I would a mad dog.” Before McLeod could reply, the Major turned on his heels and left him.
McLeod made no further attempt to molest the Major, nor did he allow any raids bent on murder. The sudden authority placed in his hands in a measure sobered him. He inaugurated a series of petty deviltries, whipping negroes and poor white men against whom some of his crowd had a grudge, and annoying the school teachers of negro schools.